Walls
by PythonFan
Summary: Rating to be safe. Companion to "Thunderstorms." Josh muses on his past and present. Angsty one-shot, featuring Cynical!Josh POV.


Walls

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.

Timeline: Alternate universe for everthing after Episode 4.15, _Inauguration: Over There_

Rating: M

One shot, J/D; Josh POV

**I.**

"Linda! Get in here."

"Yes, sir?" The bespectacled creature, a petite brunette in her early thirties, peeks around the doorframe, precariously trying to balance a stack of files and binders about two feet high.

"You have those notes on Senator Carradine? The stuff on the finance committee?"

Linda flinches, struggling to hold the ever-greatening load. "Carradine? I thought you said Carter on foreign relations?"

I sigh, shaking my head. "No. Carradine. I'm doing a position paper on social security. _Je suppose _it might be hard to find amidst a stack of trade agreements with Chirac."

Linda nods, the pain and exhaustion clearly showing on her face. "Yes, sir. My mistake. I'll get it to you as soon as possible." As she hurries away to relieve herself of her load, I grin sardonically. Nope, not her mistake. I _had _said Carter on foreign relations.

Just call it breaking in the new girl.

I stretch my arms and arch my back in my chair, basking in the glory that is me. I love the idea of people rushing around to serve me. It's lovely, really. No interruptions, no bickering. Just service, plain and simple.

I reach for my remote to flip around. I catch a particular favorite of mine in "The O'Reilly Factor." The blowhard is yammering on with that pompous false outrage. The caption at the bottom reads, "Christianity v. Liberalism: Who's Persecuting Who?"

"Who's Persecuting _Whom_, douchebag!" I yell at the T.V. Bill, oblivious to his grammatical error, continues his tirade against us godless Commie liberal extremists. I click to C-SPAN as Leo walks in the door, fixing me with his infamous "What the hell was that?" glare.

"Take it down a few notches, or persecution won't be your only problem."

"Sorry." I shrug halfheartedly. Leo's got that way about him, that feeling he's looking down on you, making you feel crappy about something. It's enough to make even _me_ squirm. He's got the Catholic guilt thing down pat, I must say.

After a beat, he resumes. "I've a got a thing in the upper Midwest...the annual meeting of Dairy Farmers of America. I'm leaving tomorrow, and I'll be back Tuesday morning. Try and keep Linda _that_ long, at least." He studies me critically, something in his eyes. Concern? Irritation? Pity? Whatever it is, I know that he knows what "upper Midwest" means to me.

"Senior Staff in the Oval, ten minutes." With a curt nod, he's off, then stops suddenly to turn back towards me. "Watch how you're treating the new girl…Linda, is it? I don't need another of your assistants running out of here in tears. We've got enough to deal with without you needing a new staffer ever two days." He turns on his heel and leaves.

Leo. My father's good friend. He's been, for all intents and purposes, my mentor and surrogate father during my years with the Bartlet campaigns. He's been with me through it all. Lately, however, his patience seems to be wearing a bit thin. Especially with me.

Admittedly, I am grumpy. It's been well over a year now, and I lost a perfectly good assistant, only to see her replaced by a rapidly revolving door of freaks who were a) far too dumb to work here ("Wait, there are _two _houses of Congress?), or b) far too scary to work here ("Do you think this phone message is clear? I stayed up all of last night working on the wording.").

That irritated, clenching feeling crawls up from the pit of my stomach once more, though my chest and into my throat. All this musing on freakish assistants turns my thoughts where they don't belong. With a grunt, I gather a few briefing notes and duck out of my office, hoping I have time to grab a Diet Coke from the mess before staff.

**II.**

I sit sullenly, knocking back the last of my second Sam Adams. I've found that my supposedly sensitive system toughens up with use. I've come to realize, after all this time, that old G. Gordon Liddy was right about scorching his hand over an open flame.

The trick really _is_ not caring.

Not only Leo, but now the President, too. After senior staff this evening, he called me back like a troublemaking schoolboy at the end of the day. "Josh," he began. "I understand that we've had some problems finding you a suitable assistant."

"Sir," I broke in wearily, "it's nothing. Just some harmless fun. Lisa's fine, she's just settling in."

"I thought it was Linda."

"Right. Linda. She's fine. We're just getting used to each other."

"Seems like you've had a lot of opportunities to 'get used to' a lot of prospective assistants over this last year or so."

"Sir, it's just—"

"Leo told me. Ten in sixteen months?"

There's a long pause. Awkward, really. President Bartlet is like a father to me, too, and talking to the leader of the free world about my apparent assistant fetish was…well, as Sam would put it, bad on so many levels.

I knew what was coming next. Over the past several months, I've slowly become accustomed to the fact that what Donna Moss and I had tried to keep reduced to friendly banter over the course of the four years of the first administration was, in fact, blatantly obvious to everyone. Including the President. I'd been at the receiving end of some pretty brutal looks of sympathy over the past year and four months.

"Josh, you know how close I was with Delores Landingham. I know—"

_No, Mr. President, with all due respect, you do not_. I thought. _Unless you spent an amazing night together after half a decade of…whatever the hell it was. Unless you woke up the next morning alone, with only a Dear John letter to convince you that it hadn't been just a blissful dream. Unless you went fifteen months, three weeks, and two days without hearing from her, or knowing that she's okay. Unless you've been though hell and back, unless you lost your soul in the process, unless you died inside, abandoned by that one person who meant the world to you, no sir, you have no earthly idea._

But I not along and pretend to listen. Like a good Deputy Chief of Staff. Like a good son. Then I turned and left, tail between my legs.

I made my way to a hole-in-the-wall Georgetown bar to meet Amy for a quick drink before heading back to the White House for another late night.

I'm about to go fetch another cold one when I see her enter. She grins that wry grin of hers, holding up a hand in greeting as she threads through her way through the crowded mass of tables.

She's everything that Donna's not. In other words, she's perfect for me. She's a force in her own right, a feminist working for First Lady Abigail Bartlet. Old friends, of the proper age, who worked in the same building, but far enough away to avoid scandal, our relationship caused a stir around Washington, but no scandal. Just shock, a general feeling of, "Oh, well that makes sense."

Amy is dry and cool, to Donna's warmth and vivaciousness. Amy is ebony to Donna's blonde. Amy is direct and to the point to Donna's roundabout chattering.

"J." Amy states simply, dumping her purse and light sweater onto the table in front of her. "Bad day?" she asks, peering at me, half-amused. It's not often I'm without my "ruler of the world" mask.

I sigh. "Darling, I've come to the conclusion that no assistant in the world can fathom my greatness." I stand to grab another beer. "What're you having?"

"Oooh, therapy. Make it a…screwdriver, will you?"

"You got it." I'm gone. If I can make it through the taunting, I'll be well reimbursed tonight.

By the time I return, she is flipping through my date book.

"Lord, J." she chuckles, "If this book is any indication of your current state of organization, let me say now that I agree wholeheartedly. Plus, you've aged about ten years in the past twelve months. You need Donna Moss back."

_Eh?_ "Why would I do that?"

"Because she's just about the only person who can keep you on schedule. Wherever she went, offer her double what she's getting. The last thing you need is to get your ass fired for missing a meeting with the Congressional leadership." She squints at a particularly busy afternoon on the calendar. "I can't even read…on the 28th, are you having lunch with the Sheik of Kuwait or are you launching a strike _against_ Kuwait?"

"Give me that." I snatch it away, stuffing it carelessly into my backpack. As I sit down and push her drink towards her, I state firmly. "Donna Moss is gone. She resigned. There's nothing I can do. She's probably making six figures somewhere else."

"She'd come back, even without the money."

Again, _eh?_

"Right, I'm sure." I snort.

"God, J, give me a break. You can't pretend not to know. She followed you around like a lovesick little dog the entire time I knew you, and from what I've heard, long before I was around."

"She was my assistant. She's supposed to follow me around. Take notes, make calls, research."

Amy shakes her head. I couldn't tell whether she was amused or annoyed. "Damn, Lyman, you'd better not be as dumb as you act. I might yet regret selling my soul to marry you." She takes a sip from her screwdriver. "Now where were we?"

Back. Forth. Tension. Sex. This is your life and love, Joshua Lyman, for as long as you both shall live. Welcome to it.

**III.**

The best thing about my relationship with Amy Gardner is, unquestionably, the mindblowing sex. As we lay sated late that night in my apartment, I can't help but think what a shame it was that it was over. Now I'd have to wake up the next morning and, you know, _talk _to her. Bitch at her. Bitch _with_ her. Hell, whatever it was, the sex is far more fulfilling than our daylight communication. During the day, my thoughts are consumed with work. For better or worse, they keep me from focusing on other things. At night there's always that tiny piece of my imagination that can wander freely, back to the only night that could beat nights with Amy. For that much, I'm thankful.

She sleeps. I lay awake. I haven't slept very well since President Bartlet's second term began. Blame it on stress or anxiety. Blame it on the wedding or Amy.

But I blame her. You know of whom I speak.

After five years. After all the unspoken things we shared, she didn't trust me. She didn't believe me. _That_, I discovered, was what kept me awake. She didn't trust me...she thought I would let someone get hurt. That was what ruined me.

I would have quit on the spot for her. No questions, no regrets, no hesitation. There was nothing I wouldn't have done. Hell, I would have gone lobbying with Mary Marsh, singing the praises of her and her band of merry maniacs. And I would have done it happily.

Nothing the pundits could have said about me would have made me regret a life with Donna Moss. Nothing.

That, however, was one memo she didn't get, one message that wasn't quite clear enough.

Just letting you know.

Now what's happened to me? Somewhere, a single, tiny piece of my soul struggles to stay alive. Somewhere, deep inside me, I'm scared of what I've become. I don't feel the thrill of winning on a big bill anymore. I don't get a rush after telling off various Republicans. I can't even get into a good after-hours poker game with the Senior Staff anymore.

I've stopped seeing the point of caring about stuff. There's just a void. I don't see my friends, I see people. I don't see my fiancée, I see some good sex. I don't see my job as an opportunity to change the world for the better; I see it as a source of crappy income, where I have to drag myself every day, where I will inevitably screw something up. What's the point of caring about someone or something when, in the next moment, it's gone and some new crisis emerges? When it'll just be gone, forgotten, in half a second?

You might ask, "What the hell are you doing, getting married, when you don't feel anything for anyone, including your fiancée?"

Good question. We dated for a while last year, then figured that we'd been on-and-off so much, that we might as well get married. We'll always end up back in bed together; we might as well get some government benefits from it.

Her vision of marriage is no less romantic, though, let me assure you. After I looked particularly morose a couple weeks ago she told me, "I'm not an emotional person, J. I don't hold many notions about a knight in shining armor. We're a couple of people who find each other attractive, which is hard enough these days. We're friends, more or less. We're good together most of the time. We work well together, on paper and in our careers. That's more than I can say for most married couples I know. We can open doors for each other. I thought you were the same, but if not, I'll just say this: you won't have to feel the pain of looking at each other one day and realizing that we're not in love anymore. If you even believe that kind of crap. Marriage doesn't have to be about fluttering hearts and unrequited love. It's an alliance."

It was the first time in a long time that I fully agreed with her.

But my life proceeds as usual. I can put on the mask like I always do, look like Joshua Lyman, Deputy Chief of Staff to the President of the United States of America, the Guy Who Cares to one half of America, That Liberal Jackass to the other.

To the outside world, I look no different. To most of my co-workers, I'm bitchy over the loss of my competent assistant (and my crush/girlfriend/lover, possibly, depending on who you talk to). But not _changed_ in anyway…just irritated. My friends…I don't know what they see. Frankly, it's inane, I know, but I don't give a shit. I don't. Sorry.

But I'm a professional. So I do my job. I live my life. I smile and crack jokes. The only thing I don't do is care.

**IV.**

So, you're asking, if I'm apathetic towards my life, my work, my friends, and my fiancée, what exactly _do _I do with my life?

Another worthy question. Congrats.

I'm usually consumed by my near-constant work schedule. When I do get some good alone time, though, I reflect.

I muse on coulda, woulda, shoulda. I wonder why I didn't—why I don't--go after her. I would be a lot of homework, doubtless—her roommate refused to say anything. The credit card companies stayed silent, even after providing credentials about my job and dropping the President's name. Same with airlines, rental car companies, and the United States Postal Service. Working in, arguably, the most powerful environment in the world has surprisingly few perks.

I've got guesses. She went home to Wisconsin, probably, at least for a time. She's mentioned friends and family in and around Phoenix, San Francisco, and Denver. I could fly out to Wisconsin easily, find her family members and, you know, be generally annoying until they gave up the goods.

But I won't. First, I wouldn't know what to say. If I haven't heard so much as a word from her for well over a year, she's not exactly begging me to rescue her from her tower prison. Nearly every guy has a tale of "the one that got away." No matter what the degree of their emotion, most men don't hop a plane like some romantic hero in the movies. It's real life. I maintain that it's far better for me to know only that she's out there somewhere. If I went out there, and found her, and she turned me down outright without so much as a thought…well, she wrote what she wrote, but it's been sixteen months. And she left. She left. She left. She left.

Keep saying it, Josh. One day you might actually understand.

There's always the possibility that I haven't heard from her because…no. Just no. You know how I said that pretty much nothing makes me feel anything anymore? Her being in danger, sick or hurt or…well, you know, is one of the few things that I deem off-limits. I don't know what some serious dwelling on that idea would bring out in me, but I know that none of it would be good.

What if she's in a relationship? Probably not married, but a boyfriend is a good possibility. Some gomer, no doubt, a local yokel who'll leave her high and dry after taking her livelihood with her. Jackass, I dub thee Freeride II. Hell, maybe she'll get the original. God help us all.

Will any of them understand what they've got? I doubt it. I went to Yale, and I didn't.

I have mixed feelings about it. Yes, feelings. Amazing, huh? Donna Moss is the one person who stirs up any sort of feeling in me. Unfortunately, they're not exactly constructive. Does "tortured soul" mean anything to you? That's why I don't let them permeate.

On the one hand, I hope she's happy. I hope she finds some semblance of order in this life. Ideally, she'd spend her life living in some sort of Protestant cloister, but, you know. Happy. Satisfied, at least.

On the other hand, I hope she's miserable. I know, real nice, huh? Hoping the love of you life is miserable? I'm bitter, damn it, you know that. Misery loves company, and knowing that she had turned into some zombie-ish version of herself, like I have, it would give me a good bit of comfort. Knowing that it wasn't just me for all those years.

I would have resigned, you know. I would have found a lower-profile job where I could stay in politics, but stay with her. I would have offered her the chance to go to school. She got extremely lucky in getting where she got without so much as an undergraduate degree.

I could have given her a white wedding. Or not. A justice of the peace would have done, too. Whatever she wanted.

I would have been a father to our kids. Coaching soccer, family vacations, 2AM feedings.

But, you know, "could have, would have" sounds like I was being forced. I'm really not. That, right there, is my fairytale ending. If only God were that good. If only it were the movies, that is how it would end. I have dreams about it sometimes. Don't worry, I don't talk in my sleep or shout the wrong name during sex (Amy would berate me mercilessly, no doubt). But they're there, and they make perfect sense to me while I'm asleep.

Yet…she didn't trust me. It's ironic that that very thought is another that turns my stomach with nausea, yet it was that realization that caused me to leave the realm of the feeling. Frankly (and I know I have been anything but frank thus far), if I didn't make a concentrated effort to block out my emotions, I fear what I would become. I would fear for my physical and emotional health. That's why I do it. That's why I built walls around myself, especially around my heart. Strong ones that won't fall, or even crack. That's about as plain and simple an answer as I can give you after this long ramble.

I literally trusted this woman with my life. Turns out she couldn't even bother to be there in the morning.

END

"_So much attention is paid to the aggressive sins, such as violence and cruelty and greed with all their tragic effects, that too little attention is paid to the passive sins, such as apathy and laziness, which in the long run can have a more devastating and destructive effect upon our society than the others."_

--Eleanor Roosevelt

Author's Notes: There you have it. Cynical!Josh.Typical boy, I call him. I'm beginning to consider a series, if there's interest. It will be long, I can't do short, and it may take a while to complete. But who knows, summer is approaching rapidly (less than a month now), so I could make some serious headway. Just let me know. Thank you for all your lovely reviews. I appreciate it.


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